


With an Insufficiently Muffled Gasp

by theleaveswant



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom/sub, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, Multi, Nonmonogamous Relationship, Religious Guilt, Virginity or Celibacy Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:36:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/theleaveswant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan can hear them, of course he can. This does not mean they cannot hear <i>him</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With an Insufficiently Muffled Gasp

**Author's Note:**

> This story was supposed to be part of a non-sequential series exploring possible circumstances under which Athelstan might be tempted to break his vow of chastity, written as a belated fill for the March 2013 "Pick One Kink" mini-challenge at Kink Bingo. The rest of them may or may not ever get written. This one takes place some time after Athelstan has begun to settle into life with the heathens but before the attack on the farm.

They're at it again. Athelstan can hear them—of course he can, the whole valley can probably hear them—through the thin and shaking walls of their bedchamber. He feels his face pulling into a grimace as he hunkers down closer to the pages of his rescued book. Sleep is out of the question. He shuts his eyes and gives his head a shake, trying to will away uncharitable thoughts, before returning his gaze to the text, questing to drown out the rhythm of Ragnar and Lagertha's clamourous coupling by swathing himself in the rhythm of the Word. It works, for a while, until a particularly forceful thump, followed quickly by a peal of muffled laughter, transpire to jolt Athelstan back to full awareness of his surroundings. He sighs and shuts his eyes again, tipping his head to lean against the plaster.

Athelstan does not need to press his eye to a gap in the woven screen to guess what's happening on the other side. He can picture well enough Ragnar, breathless with laughter, drawing his legs towards his body to roll himself and Lagertha back onto their worn mattress, and the slide of Ragnar's hand along Lagertha's haunch before he swats her sharply for laughing at him (although of course that only sets her giggling again). Athelstan whimpers and thumps his head against the wall repeatedly, falling out of sync with Ragnar as the latter builds back up his fucking speed.

He could move to another part of the house easily enough now that he's no longer kept tethered like livestock, even drag his heavy blanket outside with him to shiver under at the stars, but Athelstan knows from experience that this evasion brings scant relief. The noise may be less, but that dampening only inflames Athelstan's imagination, inspiring a cavalcade of images, nightmare-vivid scenes, Lagertha and Ragnar's bodies writhing in improbable configurations . . . No, better to stay here with the Devil's face half-glimpsed than to stray into shadows yet deeper. Here, with the slapping and the squelching, the grunts and throaty moans, cries straddling the split between anguish and ecstasy, and the smell—

Oh, God.

Perhaps Athelstan had better go outside, after all. The sounds and images are bad enough, but the smell, that thick sea-musk tang, reaches like a hand down his throat to the root of his body and pulls so hard at his loins that Athelstan cannot help curling forward, spellbound in agonized lust. His prick jogs with the movement, rubbing at the inside of his breeches in a most attention-grabbing way. Athelstan grinds his teeth over silent imprecations, cursing that organ which is the true source of his current grief. Lagertha and Ragnar are married, after all, and entitled to exercise the privileges endowed by that status; it is only Athelstan whose lewd and covetous mind strays out of bounds.

Lagertha howls in ecstasy and Athelstan winces both at the volume and at the eager throb that her rough-voiced cry inspires in him. Ragnar's all-triumphant half-chuckle half-growl is no help, either. Almost without thinking (or so he would like to claim) Athelstan's hand slips from his book to his lap, taking hold of his prick and pressing it down against his thigh. The warmth and pressure are overwhelming and Athelstan sucks a breath, grimacing. He's not sure he'd describe the aching tension, the grinding urge to rut up against his palm, as pleasurable, but it is certainly compelling.

"Hush," Lagertha pants, and Athelstan's eyes snap open. "Wait, wait. Hush. Did you hear that?"

The creaking in the other room staggers to a halt and Athelstan scrabbles to replace his book across his lap and adopt a posture of studious attention as Ragnar and Lagertha pad barefoot out to the edge of the screen.

"Did you say something, priest?" Ragnar asks.

"Hm?" Athelstan pretends not to have noticed their arrival, and flushes even brighter when he glances ever-so-casually up and sees them both naked, shining with sweat and sex. He swallows, tearing his eyes away and staring fixedly at the ceiling. "No, nothing."

The corner of Ragnar's mouth quirks upwards and he advances on Athelstan quickly enough that Athelstan tenses on instinct, his hands drawing up defensively. Ragnar reaches down to pluck the book from Athelstan's lap. "Don't!" Athelstan cries, reaching for the book, then draws his fingers back, concern that Ragnar, angered, might take his displeasure out on the book eclipsing his fear of being caught out.

Ragnar looks at Athelstan, who hastily draws his knees up to his chest and hugs his arms around them, and drops the book with a thump onto the cot by his side. Athelstan shuts his eyes and feigns impatience at Ragnar's presence, muttering the Lord's Prayer so rapidly that the syllables stumble together out of his mouth. Ragnar strikes him, not hard, just a light slap of his fingertips against Athelstan's cheek, but it shocks Athelstan out of his affectation. 

"For God?" Ragnar asks, his eyes flicking pointedly from Athelstan's face to the join of his breeches. Athelstan stares at him, aghast, and Ragnar smiles. "Good," he says, brushing his fingers gently over Athelstan's stubble. Lagertha comes to stand beside him, fingers tracing idly over his stooped spine. "We'd get jealous."

Athelstan's mouth goes dry as parchment.

"You should be more discrete, you know," Ragnar says, straightening and wrapping an arm around Lagertha's waist. "You're loud enough to bring the house down."

Lagertha chuckles and buries her face in Ragnar's neck. 

"Up," Ragnar commands with an imperious finger-flick. He kicks at the cot with the edge of his foot when Athelstan is slow to comply, so Athelstan moves faster, keeping his shoulderblades against the wall as he pushes up onto his feet. "Show me."

"I cannot," he protests, but Ragnar fixes him with a dubious look beneath an artfully cocked eyebrow, and Athelstan subsides. He reaches for the ties on his tented breeches and works them open, too slowly for Ragnar who lends a hand, yanking the worn fabric roughly down off his hips. 

Ragnar hums appreciatively, shuffling a half-step closer as he traces a finger up the side of Athelstan's cock. "Very nice," Lagertha comments. She closes in on Athelstan's other side, cold fingers stroking his belly and making him shiver as she pushes his shirt up for a better look. Athelstan blushes at the attention, his toes curling with embarrasment (or perhaps that's Ragnar's warm hand descending to cup his scrotum) upon his thin sleeping mat. He sighs, eyes slipping closed as Ragnar leans in, nuzzling at Athelstan's cheek as his and Lagertha's hands roam over his softly trembling body.

"Lagertha," Ragnar says, his voice rumbling through his chest, and the cot shifts under Athelstan's feet as Lagertha moves to rest her knees on it, her face on a level with his belly.

"What—" Athelstan frowns in confusion when Lagertha places a kiss on his hipbone, then gasps as she takes his prick in her mouth and sucks. His hand leaves the wall and hovers, unsure of whether to push her away or to hold her to him.

"You like that?" Ragnar asks, and laughs at the strangled noise that is all Athelstan can manage in reply. The feeling is hot and slippery and unspeakably, impossibly good. He actually whimpers when Ragnar pulls Lagertha off Athelstan's cock by her hair and turns her head toward his own. "You'll get another chance," he assures him, leaning back from the wall. "Watch."

Athelstan watches Lagertha's head bobbing as she sucks. It looks uncomfortable for her, mouth forced open by Ragnar's stout cock, her cheeks taut as she strains to take in more than the ruddy-crowned head, but she slants her head to look up at him and her eyes, at least, are smiling. Athelstan does his best to smile back, although his jaw is twinging in sympathy.

Ragnar sighs, his fingers brushing hair from Lagertha's forehead. "Athelstan," he says, and Athelstan grunts acknowledgement though his vision remains fixed on Lagertha's face. "Do what you were doing before."

It takes a moment for Ragnar's words to penetrate, and another for Athelstan to discern their meaning. He's not sure why it's harder for him to touch himself than to let them touch him but it is, and his hand shakes as he wraps it around his prick. His hand moves jerkily, at first, unpracticed and unsure. Ragnar's right hand leaves Lagertha's head to cover it, guiding it faster and squeezing harder, making him moan and push his hips away from the wall, driving up into the touch.

"Don't come in her hair," Ragnar advises, and Lagertha saves Athelstan the responsibility of heeding him by tearing herself away from Ragnar's cock, shoving his and Athelstan's hands out of the way to wrap her mouth around him. Athelstan slumps against the wall, his eyes shut tight and mouth gone slack with moaning, certain he would fall if not for Ragnar's arm across his chest, holding him upright.

"I'm sorry," Athelstan says, when he can speak again, half his weight slumped against Ragnar and his eyes blinking blearily at Lagertha, wiping her mouth as she stands. He doesn't know whom he's addressing.

"Don't be," Lagertha says, and Ragnar pats him hard on the cheek. "Maybe now you'll settle, and give the rest of us some peace."


End file.
